


Where the grass is green (and the boys are pretty)

by arghthisisannoying



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Light daddy kink, M/M, Rimming, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arghthisisannoying/pseuds/arghthisisannoying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is sent to the Malik's estate for however long, as a trial before it is decided that they should marry. Things get complicated when Harry meets one of the groundsmen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the grass is green (and the boys are pretty)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toplinson (crybaby)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crybaby/gifts).



> Shout-out to my incredible betas, bitter-sweet-peach and katizzz! Without them this lil' fic would be full of inconsistencies, misspellings and who knows what else. I can't thank them enough for their time and help! All the remaining mistakes are mine, and mine only.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you goes to toplinson for amazing prompts and even more amazing fics, which, you should go and read RIGHT NOW.
> 
> And, of course, to Leah and Ren for organising this whole thing :)
> 
>  
> 
> Title from Paradise City, by Guns N' Roses (slightly changed, though)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own One Direction, this is a work of fiction.

 

 

_June, 1815_

 

Zayn is beautiful.

 

Actually, if Aphrodite were a man, she would shamefully hide behind the vision that is Zayn Malik.

Eyes the colour of dark, liquid gold, framed with lashes thicker than those starless Persian nights Harry reads so much about, casting intricate shadows over the sharpness of his cheekbones.

 

Zayn is _enthralling_.

 

And maybe, just _maybe_ , it would be easier for Harry not to feel guilty, if his looks were all that there was to him. Were there no soft smile gracing his lips every time Liam remembers to call him by his first name, were there no worried lines between his brows when the old cook accidentally cuts himself with one of his kitchen knives, no tenderness in a way he treats everyone, _everything_.

 

Maybe, just _maybe_ , it would be easier for Harry, was there no heart of gold beating inside of Zayn Malik.

 

Maybe then, he would feel no guilt about his own heart beating for another pair of eyes, another smile, another heart.

 

Another man.

 

***

 

_May, 1815_

 

At the age of eighteen, Harry Styles is just the right age to be married into a good, wealthy family. And if his noble status did not already make him a desirable husband, then his rich chocolate curls and wide doe eyes combined with a pair of perfectly luscious lips would certainly do the job.

 

As a matter of fact, the job is already done.

 

Just this morning, Sir Zayn Malik asked Harry’s father for his hand in marriage, getting his immediate blessing. According to their agreement, Harry is supposed to join Sir Malik in his mansion this afternoon, in order to spend some trial time together before the final decision is made.

 

Which is certainly not needed, his father says to Sir Malik, but he insists. It would be easier for both he and Harry, Sir Malik explains, to get to know each other before the commitment.

 

The Malik family is famous for its astounding aesthetic physique and musical talent, not to mention wealth. Really, Harry would be mad not to accept the offer, his sister Gemma keeps saying, interrupting the peaceful quiet of the Styles’ library and eyeing the novel in Harry’s hands with barely hidden disdain. She always considered him to be a hopeless romantic, Harry knows, a naïve fool who lives to please the others. A personality trait worthy of a servant, not nobleman.

 

However, a naïve fool that he is, Harry doesn’t hold it against her. Instead, he gently closes the worn leather covers, and leaves his – _oh, so silly_ \- dreams of love rest between the pages, for some other fool to find.

 

***

“You should take more wardrobe with you, dear, it’s not as we couldn’t afford another carriage,” Harry’s mother fusses around him, trying to inconspicuously wipe another tear with her embroidered handkerchief. “Also, why only take one servant?” she continues, stroking her thumb softly against his cheekbone, Harry nuzzling into the touch. He will miss his mother dearly. She was the one who always encouraged him to stay true to himself, dreamer or not. “I worry about you, Harry.”

 

“I’ll be fine, mother, no need to worry,” he replies, kissing her hand sweetly before servant helps him inside the first carriage, the second one holding his belongings.

 

He keeps seeing his mother’s tears long after the carriage leaves Styles’ mansion.

 

 

 

The trip passes in complete silence. Somewhere along the way, Harry decides to send the servant back home upon arriving to Malik’s estate. He was never close with any member of his household anyway, his mother an exception, which contradicted gravely to his public persona. _Natural charmer_ , he remembers reading once in papers, a grimace warping the fine lines of his face. _Yet a delusional bookworm at home, as the servants nicely put it, in a hushed whispers behind his back._

The carriage abruptly stops, startling Harry from his thoughts.

 

“The Malik estate, Sir,” the servant announces.

 

 

The mansion itself is quite beautiful, old ivy embracing the white stoned walls like a secret lover, but still careful to keep its spidery fingers away from the tall windows, as though as not to shield their vision of the garden. The main entrance stands out in its classic simplicity, decorated only by carved front door, and roses curling around the lone pair of pillars.

 

But the garden is what captures Harry’s attention.

 

He has _seen_ things, you know, perks of being a wealthy nobleman from the old English family. To impress him, it is decidedly not easy.

 

Harry is impressed.

 

Scattered beds of flowers fill the spring air with heavy exotic scents, taking you to the faraway lands you’ve never seen with your own eyes, but can so easily imagine. Tall trees grow freely between the shrubberies, throwing pleasant shade on the gravelled paths. There is a pavilion looming in the distance, hidden among the willows kissing glass surface of the lake. Though, that is not what holds Harry’s attention.

 

No, his eyes linger on four symmetrical rows of phallic topiaries placed on both sides of a gravelled pathway leading to the main entrance.

 

Smooth, veined, wide, leaning; each one seems to be neatly trimmed and crafted in such minute, yet true detail, an obvious homage to the male physiques. Some even have white roses spilling from the tip, causing Harry to laugh at the gardener’s boldness.

 

He is, in fact, so mesmerized by the sight before him that he fails to notice the quickly approaching figure of the one and only Zayn Malik.

 

"Enjoying the view, I presume?"

 

Harry suddenly feels a consuming need to hide behind the first topiary in sight.

 

"I- um, no- Oh _my_ , I meanyes, the garden is… _wonderful_ I just-" Harry fumbles through the sentence before shutting himself up. Glancing down, he tries to quell the blush he feels creeping onto his face. He can't believe he has already shown such rudeness to his host! Harry can almost _feel_ his own servant smirking behind him, and makes a mental note to send him back home as soon as possible. Looking up, he notices Sir Malik smiling gently at him with a slight tilt to his coral lips, which only serves to deepen the redness of his cheeks.

 

Harry needs to concentrate, right _now_.

 

Though Sir Malik combined with the phallic background makes that task harder than it seems. Green brings out the beauty of his skin in most glorious ways.

 

Which, not a good thing to think about.

 

(He is young and impressionable. Also, being exposed to Zayn Malik's enrapturing presence. _Damnit_ , these are completely understandable reactions!)

 

"Um, I deeply apologize, Sir Malik, as I am still a bit tired from travelling," he explains, willing his brain to start producing something other than utmost nonsense, though the strong scent of roses and freshly cut grass overflows his senses and fogs his thoughts.

 

"Please, do call me Zayn! Especially if it's Sir Harry Styles to whom I am having the pleasure of speaking." He chuckles at Harry's confused expression. "I do believe we haven't properly met. Sir Zayn Javadd Malik, it’s a pleasure."

 

Right, right. Manners.

 

"Sir Harry Edward Styles, but 'Harry' will suffice.“He accompanies the words with a slight bow. His hand almost immediately flies to fix his fringe, a nervous habit he cannot get rid of.Despite the nerves still kicking in, he remembers to allude to the pleasure definitely being his own.

 

After the exchange of necessary pleasantries, Harry sends his servant home with regards to his mother. Zayn offers his elbow to Harry which he accepts with a dimpled smile. “Your belongings are already being transferred to your chambers; the housekeeper will show you the way. I’d suggest you have some rest before we take a tour around the property.” Zayn says, leading him through the main entrance and inside the mansion, where a mischievous-looking blonde dressed in a spotless black dress and crisp apron awaits them.

 

"That would be lovely, thank you Sir Ma- _Zayn_ ," Harry smiles shyly, barely taking in the surroundings. There will be a time for that, too. "But before we part,” he continues, eyes shining with mirth, “could you, maybe, tell me some more about those _glorious_ topiaries decorating the front of your mansion?"

 

Zayn merely rolls his eyes at the request, obviously not the first time he’d heard it. "All in good time, Harry," he says with an air of mystery that deeply contrasts the mirth shining in the gold of his eyes. "All in good time."

 

After that, he introduces Harry to the awaiting girl – Perrie – and excuses himself. She takes that as a cue to lead Harry to his chambers.

 

 

 

The sound of their footsteps against the marble floor causes an echo against the tall walls and crystal chandeliers, lingering in the air and between the sculpted bodies of Greek gods and mythical creatures. Rare beams of light somehow manage to outwit the heavy brocade drapes, and illuminate walls covered in pictures of what Harry assumes are Zayn’s ancestors. Their looks seem to follow him, he thinks, shuddering slightly. The illusion breaks when the housemaid addresses him.

 

"So, _you_ are the young Sir the whole mansion is talking about? Quite a good lookin' chap, you are. Proper good for our dear Zayn, you seem," the small blonde chatters as she swiftly navigates the rich halls.

 

 _Perrie_ , he reminds himself, trying to keep up with her vivacious step.

 

"Why thank you, love," he winks at her, earning a giggle and a light slap on his arm. Strangely, he doesn't feel annoyed at the quite offensive ( _outrageous_ , some would even say) way this servant girl treats someone of his rank. She has quite a tongue on her too, calling her master by his first name and addressing Harry with an evident lack of formality. He doesn’t mind.

 

" Perrie, how come you address Sir Malik by his first name? Does it not bother him?” He asks casually, the effect promptly ruined by him stumbling against the hem of a long ornate carpet adorning the next hall they enter.

 

Perrie laughs, loudly and unabashedly, though if it’s because of his comment or his uncoordinated limbs, Harry does not know. "Oh no, Sir, do not fret. Sir Zayn himself asked us to address him in that manner. Probably on Louis' advice, too, as a form of defiance against his father. I wouldn't put it past him. That lad, always causing trouble," Perrie answers, a fond smile contrasting her words. "They are proper close, those two."

 

Her animated chatter stops after she notices the confusion gracing Harry's face. "Louis is one of the groundsmen, you will probably meet him a bit later. He and Zayn grew up together. Lou even received an education, lucky chap, since Zayn refused to do anything without him as a child. Or so I'd heard. He used to be really shy, our Zayn was."

 

“Basically, Lou's been here forever, his mother was a servant, and-" Perrie stops again, turning her head slightly to the side to see if Harry's still following her. "Oh my, I am rambling again, aren't I? Jade always tells me off about it! I am so sorry, Sir!”

 

Harry laughs gleefully. "Don't you worry, love, I haven't had this much fun since my birthday."

 

Now it's Perrie's turn to wink. "Glad to be of service, Sir. Here are your rooms! I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here."

 

She stops before the oak door, fumbling around it for a bit, before producing a set of keys, seemingly out of thin air. The door opens with a creak, its slightly rusty hinges not so silently protesting the intrusion.

 

The room is impeccable, as expected. Bed covered with crimson sheet and feather white pillows dominates the space, dimly lit by the sun streaming through translucent curtains. The floor is covered with carpet matching the bedding. Harry itches remove his travelling attire and feel the softness beneath his bare feet. He follows Perrie inside, who scurries to open the windows and fluff the pillows. A warm breeze invades the space, bringing in a breath of Spring and life. Deciding to let Perrie do her duties in peace, Harry goes to check the wardrobe standing in the far corner of the room. All of his belongings are already there, neatly sorted.

 

“Would you like some warm water to rinse out the travelling dust from your skin, Sir?” Perrie asks, surprisingly timid. Harry nods, offering her a smile and thanks. Soon enough she returns with a bucket, and fills the tub standing in the other corner with steaming water. When she offers to send someone to help him undress and wash, he politely refuses, suddenly not in the mood for company.

 

“Well then, I shall leave you to rest. Please, do not hesitate to call me if you need anything. I’ll be right ‘round the corner!” With that, she excuses herself, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

 

As he removes the heavy boots weighing down his tired feet and lies upon the bed with a content sigh, his mind wanders to the conversation he had with Perrie. Or, more precisely, to this _Louis_ lad. It seems like Zayn values him a great deal. Harry reminds himself to ask her more about him later.

 

Harry falls asleep dreaming of a mansion, not unlike the one he’s currently at, filled with love and children’s laughter.

 

***

 

Clean and rested, Harry goes to find Zayn, deciding not to bother with calling Perrie to help him. It takes him some time, and the sounds of piano, to discover the right room. It is occupied only his gracious host, hunched over the ivory keys.

 

The music does not stop flowing even as Harry enters the room, a delicate, melancholic melody of Mozart’s _Fantasy in D minor_ growing almost frantic for a moment, like a sudden break of glass. Harry lets the feelings poured into the piece consume him.

 

Zayn stops right before the modulation. It feels strangely relevant, to consciously exclude the joyous ending.

 

He gets up slowly, closing the lid of the piano with a gentle movement. Only then, he notices Harry standing silently by the door. “ Oh, my, Harry, you are here! Please, accept my apologies for not noticing you earlier. Music tends to make me lost in my own world. ” Zayn seems genuinely distressed for neglecting Harry’s presence, lips turned into an apologetic smile.

 

“Nothing to apologise for. I enjoyed your performance immensely,” Harry replies gently. There’s some distant sadness lingering behind Zayn’s eyes, the kind that makes Harry feel like he is intruding on a private moment. Zayn murmurs a modest ‘thank you’, leaving the piano, and offering his elbow to Harry with a smile.

 

“Would you like to take a tour around the mansion?”

 

*

 

The Malik property does not disappoint by any means.

 

The outdoors is chaos of colour and wild freedom. There are Gothic ruins resting among the shrubberies, pergolas covered in roses that lead to peaceful meadows. Located further within the gardens is a shallow grotto that reminds Harry of fairytales his mother used to read to him every night before bed. The memory fills him with peace.

 

Zayn then takes him to the lake, from where the whole property can be seen bathing in the warm sunlight. The sight leaves Harry with bright eyes. He feels it in his bones; he could get used to this place. Maybe even call it _home_.

 

Before turning back to the mansion, they go to see the stables. There, Harry meets a beautiful black stallion with clever eyes, as well as Stan, a horse groomer who greets him with a happy grin.

 

 

The insides of the Malik estate more or less resemble Harry’s own mansion in London; there are hallways filled with tapestries and old armours, multiple rooms for a different use, similar all the same. Nothing Harry hasn’t seen before. The only room that he shows any interest in is, of course, a library. Despite being much smaller than the one in Harry’s family home, the familiar scent of parchment still holds his interest much longer than anything else.

 

The tour ends in the main hall, where a total of seven people already await their return, an astonishingly low number considering Zayn’s wealth and social status. Suddenly, he remembers Louis, wondering which one of the three male staff members is he.

 

"Harry, let me introduce the staff of the Malik estate," Zayn's voice startles Harry from his thoughts. "You've already met Perrie, the housekeeper…”

 

Zayn then proceeds toto introduce his staff, gesturing towards three women, apparently all maids, and an older man, the head cook. They respectably bow their heads when introduced, Perrie also sending him a quick smile.

 

“…the rest of the boys are groundsmen, Michael, Liam and..." Zayn looks around with a slight frown.

 

"Liam, where is Tommo?" he asks one of the three men, tall, rugged lad with kind eyes.

 

"I apologise deeply, Sir-“ Zayn shakes his head with fond exasperation. "Um, _Zayn_ , " Liam mumbles. Harry wonders how many times Zayn corrected him on a title usage. It seems like a routine. It is fascinating, how Liam’s rugged looks contrast his well-mannered persona."He is, um, in the backyard maze. Working on another" -soundless mouthing- " _D-I-C-K S-T-A-T-U-E_."

 

My, did Liam look scandalised. Harry tries to muffle his laughter, feeling sorry for the poor lad.

 

“I’ve told him it would be terribly rude not to come, that it is required of him, but to no avail,” Liam concludes sadly.

 

Zayn fights off a smile. “We all know how Louis gets when he is working on one of his masterpieces. Requirements or not.” Maids giggle at the words.

 

Regardless Louis’ defiance, it seems like he is well-liked around the mansion, Harry concludes.

 

“Harry, would you mind terribly if I leave you with Perrie for a moment? I shall go find Louis, remind him of manners he continuously forgets to use.” More giggles follow.

 

Despite his curiosity, Harry nods. Zayn dismisses the rest of the staff, and disappears through the inconspicuous door at the far end of the hall. Though not before reassuring Liam in silent words that he’s not at fault for Louis’ behaviour.

 

Perrie crosses the hall to stand by Harry’s side. “Louis can be- quite a lot, I suppose, if you don’t know him well. Li’s new to the staff, so he’s still getting used to how things work ‘round here.” The words do nothing to quell Harry’s raising interest for the man, the infamous _Louis._

 

“Perrie, do you think Zayn would mind me joining him and Louis in the garden?”

The housmaid frowns. “Don’t think he would. But maybe it’d be better if I accompany you, the maze-”

 

“No need, I’ll find my way around,” Harry interrupts, distracted, already reaching for a doorknob. “Thank you!” He calls over his shoulder.

 

***

 

So, Harry is lost.

 

In a labyrinth.

 

Made of _bloody hedge_.

 

Though he could _swear_ that he heard voices just a moment before.

 

Defeated, Harry contemplates just diving head first through the green monstrosity when he hears them again, coming from his right. After a few missed turns and dead ends, he finally emerges into a clear, open area.

 

With an exception of grassy ( _hedgy_?) dick in its centre.

 

It’s an enormous thing consisting of two round bushes at the base, representing the testicles, and another one representing the member itself. The base is wide enough that even Harry, with his spidery long hands, couldn’t embrace it whole. Not that he would try, or anything. Of course.

 

Zayn huffs an annoyed breath at the snipping sound of hedge clippers behind the dick ( _phallic topiary, Harry!),_ and turns around in surprise when Harry lets out an awkward cough.

 

"Harry?”

 

The snipping sound stops as the figure emerges from behind the d- _phallic topiary_.

 

Time freezes.

 

 

 _Harry did not plan this. He did not plan for the way sun catches in messy caramel hair. Nor ethereal blue eyes. He did not plan for sharp cheekbones, and even sharper canines. He most certainly did not plan for bronze skin spread tight over strong muscles of his arms. And that damn_ smirk _._

_Harry did not plan for Hell to break loose in the middle of this hidden paradise._

_It still did._

 

 

Time freezes. The only things still existing are Harry, _The_ _Great Green Phallus_ , and the most gorgeous, scruffy creature that has ever graced the surface of the Earth.

 

Which means a lot, coming from a person who has met Zayn Malik.

 

The vision snips his gardening shears, the world starts moving again.

 

Harry thinks his heart stayed behind.

 

 

 

"Who do we have here, Z? Who's the lil' green-eyed cherub?"

 

“ _Louis_ ,” Zayn begins, warning clear in his voice.”Meet Harry.”

 

Harry doesn’t even notice the jab, too preoccupied with his thundering heart. For a moment, he wishes he were a poet, so he could write endless sonnets about the smooth expanse of skin over cheekbones. Wishes he were a painter, so he could spend his whole life searching for the right shade of blue adorning Louis’ eyes.

 

But, most of all, Harry wishes to _feel_ him. To feel Louis holding him; kissing him, marking him _._

_Fucking h-_

 

 

Well, that escalated quickly.

 

Unfortunately, Harry feels something else escalating quickly, too, and it wasn’t the hedge dick.

 

Glancing up, he notices Louis smirking at him, and can't keep the fire from burning his cheeks.

 

"Just Harry? I ain't going to let _'just Harry'_ marry me darling best friend, here. He deserves a royal, with those dashing looks, he does."

 

“Louis! You’re out of the line!” Zayn hisses. “Apologise, immediately.”

 

“No need, Zayn,” Harry assures him, with far more confidence than he actually has. “Sir Harry Edward Styles, pleasure.”

 

“Sure there is,” Zayn replies. “Now, Louis, _apologise_ to our guest.”

 

Louis looks at Zayn like a petulant child would after their parent’s scolding. After a moment, though, he does apologise with a dramatic flourish. Through the final, exaggerated bow, Louis’ gaze shamelesslly follows the expanse of Harry’s body. When his eyes meet the green ones, neither looks away.

 

“Why, that went well,” Zayn murmurs.

 

***

 

_June, 1815_

It starts with the hedge shears.

 

 

Like every other morning, at precisely 5 o’ clock, a pair of hedge shears starts the loud, snipping song right beneath Harry’s room window.

 

Harry wakes right up, biting his pillow as to not let a frustrated scream claw its way from his lungs. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep for almost a month. The picture of Louis’ body glistening with sweat as he digs in hard soil keeps him awake long after he excuses himself for bed. The bloody hedge shears at 5 am do not help, either.

 

It’s not unintentional, that much is obvious. Louis never misses a chance to ask him, in a sickeningly sweet voice, if he’s slept well. Harry always bites back a reply, not wanting to give Louis the satisfaction of knowing he affects him.

Harry doesn’t understand what he’s done to deserve this kind of _special treatment_ from the tanned man when he’s been nothing but kind to him ever since that conversation in the maze. Maybe he’s being tested, maybe that’s what this ‘trial time’ is all about? Making sure that he is good enough?

 

Or maybe Louis simply cannot stand his existence.

(Harry really, _really_ hopes that’s not the case.)

 

Though no matter what the reason is, Harry’s is not going to let it get to him. If Louis expects for Harry to go and cry for Zayn’s help like some rich, spoiled brat, he’s in for a surprise.

 

Harry can be quite stubborn when he wants to be.

 

***

 

Harry hates seeing the worried expression on Zayn’s face when he excuses himself for bed even earlier than usual. “I’m just terribly tired lately, no need to worry about me,” he tries, but can see that Zayn does not believe him. “You do know that you can always come and talk to me if something’s bothering you, right?” Zayn reminds him warmly. Harry nods in silent thanks, the sick feeling of guilt forming inside of him. Zayn has been nothing but good to him from the moment he stepped onto the Malik property, yet Harry lies in bed every night thinking about another man.

 

Zayn’s best friend.

 

Harry excuses himself once again, not meeting Zayn’s eyes as he rushes to his chambers.

 

Hours pass, but there’s no sleep coming to Harry. His thoughts are too loud, guilt mixing with a mad swirl of _blueblueblue,_ not giving him peace he desperately seeks.

 

He sighs. The library seems like his best choice, right now. Books never fail to silence his thoughts.

 

He drapes the silk robe tighter over his shoulders as he crosses the hall illuminated only by candle lights casting shadows on the lifeless statues, and oil portraits. Just as he reaches the main hall, Harry hears it.

 

It’s quiet, almost drowned in the sounds of crickets and breeze ruffling through the leaves. Harry’s never heard such a lovely, mesmerising sound before. There’s an almost haunting quality to it.

 

The song is coming through the ajar door that leads to the back garden; it seems like an invitation to adventure. Excitement thrums through Harry’s veins as he opens the door completely and finds himself outside of the mansion.

 

Harry finds him lying on a meadow hidden behind the maze.

 

 

_The trees they grow high,_  
 _the leaves they do grow green_  
 _Many is the time my true love I've seen_  
 _Many an hour I have watched him all alone_  
 _He's young,_  
 _but he's daily growing._

 

Louis sings into the night air, his eyes closed and feet bare. The soft grass beneath him seems almost silver under the shining light of the moon. And Harry feels, feels so much it makes him dizzy, feels like he’s drowning in the gentle lilt of Louis’ voice.

 

A breath that leaves his lungs is too loud, too heavy. The song stops.

 

Louis opens his eyes and inhales sharply when he sees him. Even in the dim light, Harry can see his body going rigid, almost defensive, and that’s not what he wants, doesn’t want Louis feeling uneasy in his presence. Not when this may be his only chance to get closer to the man. So Harry lies beside him, his hands crossed behind his head, and closes his eyes. He can feel caution behind the blue gaze resting on his face.

 

“You shouldn’t leave the doors unlocked, you know,” Harry says softly, his words met with silence. When he dares to open his eyes, he’s met with a sight of Louis with his hand clasped over his mouth. It takes Harry a moment to realise that the man is _laughing_ , his body shaking with stifled giggles.

 

“You are a strange one, Sir Harry Edward Styles,” Louis admits with a smile still lingering on his lips.

 

They lie in a comfortable silence. Harry almost doesn’t ask the question that refuses to leave his mind, afraid to break it, but curiosity gets the better of him.

 

“I do not wish to be intrusive, but…why are you out here, at this hour?”

 

Louis hums, closing his eyes. It looks like he’s contemplating what to say, not wanting to reveal something he’ll regret.

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” is what he settles for. It’s a simple phrase that probably holds no deeper meaning, but it still makes Harry’s heart flutter in his chest. He wonders if he’s imagining a slight blush resting high on Louis’ cheekbones.

 

Later, when they part, it feels like a truce of some sort.

 

In the morning, Harry wakes up to no sound of shears, and smiles.

 

***

 

They start to talk.

 

It starts on the morning when Harry chooses to read in the garden. “Just catching some fresh air,” he explains to Zayn, silencing the voice of guilt in his head. Louis, coincidentally, chooses to trim the bushes right next to him. The words start flowing between them.

 

(‘Obviously, those bushes were in a desperate need for a trim’, Louis argues later that day. Zayn just rolls his eyes, thoroughly amused.)

 

Library becomes their meeting spot in the evenings; a place where Harry laughs when Louis animatedly retells childhood stories about his and Zayn’s mischiefs, a place where Louis listens intently to Harry’s dreamy words about the books he wishes to read, faraway countries he wishes to see.

 

Ironically, Louis is the one that makes him forget to feel guilty of his blooming feelings.

 

***

 

"Perrie, love, could I ask for a moment of your time?"

 

Perrie, who was just dusting a marble bust of Adonis standing aside the bifurcating staircase, leaves the duster and wipes her hands on her apron before turning around. "Sure, Sir, what d' you need me for?"

 

"I was just wondering if you would mind terribly telling me where Louis is? I cannot find him, and, um-" Harry drifts off, cheeks flushed.

 

Perrie snickers. "Sure thing. But, if you don't mind _me_ asking, why do you want to know? Not that I cannot guess meself." Her voice turns quiet as she prompts him to come closer. "He _is_ pleasing to the eye, and I can tell you noticed that too, Sir. You're not quite subtle with your glances." Harry chokes on air.

 

"I would _never_ -"

 

"Oh _my_ , you don't have to pretend with me, I won't tell! Though your future husband wouldn't mind, anyway."

 

Her eyes widen comically, a hand flying to her mouth as though trying to push the words back inside.

 

Harry furrows his brow in confusion.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

Perrie looks at him pleadingly. " _You did not hear this from me Sir_ , it's not my place to tell!"

 

"Perrie, what is going on?” Harry demands, landing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What is it that I don't know? You cannot leave it at this!"

 

She shakes her head in determination, "I cannot say, Sir!"

 

"What is it that you cannot say, Perrie?" Another voice asks from above. The petite housekeeper freezes. Zayn slowly descends a staircase, eyes shifting from an obviously upset Perrie, back to an utterly confused Harry. "What is going on here?"

 

Perrie makes her way to Zayn, whispers a string of words into his ear followed by barely heard“ ‘m sorry”.

 

Zayn stills momentarily. A tense second passes before he shakes his head with a sad smile. “Perrie dear, it’s alright. It needs to be told anyway, I was just putting off the inevitable.”

 

Despite the warm words, Zayn looks drained to the bones. "If you'd follow me, Harry. I have a long story to tell."

 

***

 

Zayn closes the door as they enter the library, Harry settling into his favourite armchair by the window. The other man stays standing, hand clasping the wooden shelf so tightly his knuckles go white. The hand relaxes when he draws a deep breath, an introduction to the words that follow.

 

_There was only one person in Zayn's life, besides Louis, that he could always rely on._

_It was never his father._

_His mother died when he was still a young, brooding child that refused to listen to anyone that wasn't a loud, blue-eyed servant-boy. She was the one that made Sir Malik consider taking Louis under his wing, and educate him alongside Zayn as an encouragement for him to do the same. It worked._

_Then his mother died, and everything changed._

_With her gone, it was like a part his father disappeared too, beneath the cold, hard ground of London cemetery. At the time, he felt the same._

Zayn talks with his eyes closed, pain etched into crease of his brows, between the tight line of his lips. The shelves fill up with ghosts of past memories.

 

He talks about years of emptiness that followed his mother’s death, where only Louis stayed by his side.

 

Until Niall came along.

 

When the name leaves his mouth, Zayn smiles. It’s such a simple gesture, yet so powerful, so revealing it almost feels intrusive to witness it. It’s Zayn, laid bare and vulnerable, exposing his deepest emotions through a single smile.

 

They met at the art exhibition, Zayn continues with a sudden rush, stumbling over words as though as to tell them before they disappear from his memory, even when he knows for sure that they never will. Louis was the one that made him go that night, told him he has to get out of the mansion before it eats him alive. It was there, where he’d met with the brightest eyes and brightest smile; a smile that lit up his world again.

 

Dear, sweet Niall, had shown him love he’d never experienced before.

_Dear, sweet Niall, fighting a war across the ocean._

The war that ended months ago.

 

Niall hasn't come back.

 

A single tear rolls down Zayn’s cheek.

*

 

"He left three years ago. After two, Father decided that I should marry and settle down. Take over the family business. I managed to buy some time over the past year but, in the end, I couldn't escape his decision. My battle was lost. Like Niall."

 

He laughs hollowly, but does not cry. It seems like there are no more tears left to shed.

 

The chair rustles as Harry gets up, taking Zayn's hands into his own with determination on his face.

 

"Your battle is _not_ lost, not if I have any say in it," he exclaims, nudging Zayn to look up at him. When he does, there is a shimmer of hope in the sadness of his eyes.

 

"We shall have a- _a pretence marriage_ , like in books!" Harry finishes, feeling quite proud of himself, but Zayn shakes his head.

 

"Harry, you have no idea what you’re talking about. As much as I appreciate what you're willing to do for me, I cannot let you. It is a sacrifice too great. You would never be free to live as you wish, to _love_ who you wish." Zayn pierces him with a look that shoots straight through Harry's heart. "I _do_ assume who you'd wish to love. It might be too early to say, but."

Harry clenches his jaw. " _Assuming_ that you're right, that is. But I hold no romantic feelings towards Louis."

 

The words should feel like the truth. You do _not_ develop feelings for someone so shortly after you’ve met. Life is not a romance novel.

 

They still feel like a lie.

 

(Only later Harry realizes that Zayn never even mentioned Louis’ name.)

 

***

 

Harry is not quite himself after the story. It pains him that he does not know how else to help Zayn, except by marrying him.

 

The problem is, when he sees Louis’ eyes dark with worry following him around the library as he searches for something, _anything_ to keep his mind occupied, he isn’t sure that he could. It seems like even Zayn knows that already, though Harry still refuses to admit it. Louis’ gaze is too intense on him, sending shivers down his spine.

 

Harry huffs an annoyed breath, takes the first book that comes to his hand, and makes his way out to the garden. He thinks he can hear the distant footsteps chasing the echo of his own.

 

 

Clean morning air loosens some of the heaviness off Harry’s limbs. He sits on the bench placed inbetween the shrubberies, and goes to open the page.

 

There are angry voices, a rustle; next thing Harry knows, he is dripping with water, pages of his novel already soaked. Slowly, so slowly, he gets up and turns around, finding himself face to face with Louis, a petrified Liam right behind him. The other groundsman apologises to him profusely before uttering something about getting the towels, and running toward the mansion.

 

Louis doesn’t move, a bucket still in his hands. “I didn’t see, I -,” he starts, seemingly too stunned for words.

 

Harry closes his eyes, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Louis finally unfreezes, letting the bucket fall down with a loud _clank,_ and bypasses the shrubbery in a quick step. He makes to touch Harry’s shoulder tentatively, but Harry flinches away. He doesn’t see the flash of hurt in the blue eyes, only murmurs, “I need to get away.”

 

It’s all too much suddenly, the dripping water, Louis’ presence, fake marriages, lost loves…It’s just _too much_ for him to handle right now.

 

"I need to get away _, this instant_!" He almost screams, pushing roughly past Louis, going straight for the woods.

 

"Harry, wait, you'll get lost!" Louis manages, but to no avail.

 

***

 

Leave it to Harry’s long limbs to trip on the stray root.

 

"Harry?"

 

Louis emerges from the woods, but stops with a bewildered look on his face when he sees him lying on the ground. His eyes are filled with something Harry cannot decipher. After a moment of tense silence, Louis bursts.

 

"You bloody twat! Liam stopped me when I tried to approach you in the gardens, he wanted me to help him water the shrubs _that instant_. I threw the water in annoyance, trying to get rid of him. It wasn’t intentional.”

 

The words are steely, but when Louis kneels beside Harry to inspect his ankle, the touch is light, caring.

 

“I know. You- have my apologies. I was stressed…,” Harry mumbles, distracted by the slender fingers on his skin. His mind is drunk with pain and something else that sends his heart beating wildly against his ribs. Harry blames it on the fall.

 

“Just- don’t run out on me like that again, alright?” Louis sighs, letting go of his ankle. Harry doesn’t even have the time to mourn the loss of touch before he’s being lifted off the ground by a pair of strong arms.

 

Suddenly, their faces are close, close enough that Harry can see the light dusting of freckles beneath the sweep of Louis’ lashes. Blue gaze flickers over his lips, just for a moment, and if this were one of Harry’s novels…

 

_It isn’t, though. As far as he knows, Louis does not see him that way. Maybe Harry just let his imagination go too far._

"I do not need to be carried. Stop fussing too much, Louis, you are not my mother!" Harry jokes, a desperate attempt to stop himself from thinking _but, what if…?_

 

A devilish grin forms on Louis face as he tightens his grip around Harry’s back and behind his knees. "Not a mother, nor a father. You can try _Daddy,_ though. _”_

The word is said lightly, with a wink. Clearly meant as a jest.

 

Still, the implication makes Harry squirm, embarrassed flush making its way to his cheeks.

 

He hopes Louis won’t read too deep into the way Harry subtly places a hand over his lap.

 

***

 

"It's only bruised, and although heavily so, it shan't take much time to heal. Just try not to move your leg too much for the next couple of days, Sir," the doctor concludes, putting a wet towel over the swell of Harry's ankle. "Thank you, Doctor," Zayn replies as he and Louis let out a sigh of relief.

 

"Well, you've heard him. No leaving the bed this week," Zayn smirks, looking over to Louis. " _You_ are to make sure Harry gets _everything_ he needs to recover as fast as possible. Is that understood?"

 

The words seem like an internal joke between Zayn and Louis, though Louis doesn’t seem to appreciate it, judging by the glare he sends to his friend.

 

"Well, then, we shall leave you to rest. Call if you need anything. I'll be in the room just next door," Louis states, casting a subtle glance towards Harry before letting Zayn past him, and closing the door.

 

Not that Harry notices.

 

_Or falls asleep thinking about it._

 

*

 

Harry wakes up hard, to a vague memory of blue eyes and _Daddy._

 

Which, well. Not a good thing, with Louis next door.

 

The thought shouldn’t affect him as much as it does. That _jest_ shouldn’t affect him at _all_.

 

He still reaches for the small bottle of oil hidden behind his pillow, not wasting any time before slicking two of his fingers, getting them past the sweaty nightshirt and between his cheeks. Another two push past the plush of his lips, to silence his whimpers at the thought-

 

 _At the thought of getting his fingers wet, sucking on them like he would around Louis' cock. He can almost feel Louis' strong hands in his hair, pulling on it as he thrusts in hard,_ harder.

_Making him_ take _it._

_Louis, looking down at him with those crystal blue eyes. Louis, coming down his throat, his cock buried deep inside._

 

He adds a second finger much too fast, too consumed by his own fantasies to worry about the burn. His other hand moves from his mouth to grip at the sheets. Harry is so close, desperately trying to point the fingers inside of him _just right;_ his back arches from the bed, toes curling-

 

When Harry screams, it's not from pleasure. The pain that shoots through his ankle is too sudden to muffle the sound on time. Almost immediately, the door bursts open to reveal a bewildered Louis, eyes frantically searching the room.

 

What a glorious sight he gets.

 

Harry, with tears in the green of his eyes and two fingers deep in his arse, with his nightshirt pushed up to his stomach, leaving his whole lower body on display. Long legs are spread on the crimson bedding that contrasts heavily with the creamy colour of his skin, though not with the flush resting high on his cheeks.

 

Louis just stands there, unable to move.

 

Despite the pain, Harry is too desperate do be embarrassed by the words that roll from his bitten lips.

 

“Please.”

 

Just a whisper.

 

“ _Daddy.”_

Louis is done fighting a losing battle.

 

*

 

There is another hand on Harry's, gently moving his fingers past the tight muscles of his rim.

 

"Here, let me," Louis murmurs against the soft skin of Harry’s thigh. “Let me take care of you.” Harry nods, going slack at the words, his thoughts foggy with pain and arousal. Louis kisses the inside of his thigh, his beard scratching the sensitive skin, then moves down to leave a feather light kiss on his swollen ankle before whispering, "Could you keep still, love? Be still for me?" Harry bites his wrist at the words, barely containing a moan at the sight of Louis pouring the oil on his own fingers.

 

When he finally pushes in, painfully slow, Harry cries out from pleasure. The drag of Louis’ calloused digits

leaves the muscles of his stomach trembling from the effort to keep still. Louis’ breath is hot in his ear, whispering how beautiful Harry is for him, taking his fingers _so well_. How good he would feel stretched around his cock.

 

Harry comes with a scream.

 

The last thing he remembers before drifting off is a warm breath against his lips.

 

He wakes up alone.

 

***

 

Louis is quite possibly avoiding him.

 

Harry never sees him in the garden anymore, seemingly always there just when Louis switches up with Liam. When he sees him in a hallway, Louis scurries through the first door in sight, not even acknowledging his presence.

 

Alright, Louis is most certainly avoiding him.

 

Maybe he regrets what happened between them?

 

Whatever the reason, Harry does not care. There is no reason behind the painful lurch of his heart when his eyes fall on the neatly trimmed rose bush. No reason behind the emptiness he feels even while reading his favourite book.

 

He does _not_ care.

 

As a matter of fact, he cares so little that he is going to spend the rest of the evening with Zayn, listening to him playing while decidedly _not_ thinking about Louis.

 

So he follows the faint sound of pressed keys. The melody sounds distantly familiar, though he cannot place it.

 

Harry opens the door to the music room.

_The trees they grow high, the leaves they do grow green,_ the piano plays, words projecting in Harry’s mind.

_'Louis used to spend hours listening to Zayn play,'_ Perrie once said to Harry, as the sounds of Mozart mingled with constant clicking of garden shears _. 'Says it calms down the hurricane of his thoughts. I think he even plays himself, a little bit. I still find him hunched over the piano sometimes, when he's not too busy creating suggestive topiaries," she chuckled._

 

A stray note breaks the melody. Louis looks up, eyes locking with Harry's for the first time after a week.

 

He doesn't look away.

 

Harry breaks the silence with a bitter laugh. “ _Just- don’t run out on me,_ ” he mimics. “I do believe you said that once to me. Praise the irony!” Louis stays silent, resting his forehead on the polished surface of the piano with a pained expression.

 

"Why did you leave?" Harry asks, calmer, after a few agonizingly long seconds.

 

It’s Louis’ turn to laugh.

 

"This is not one of your books, _Sir_ ," he responds wryly. "Can’t you see it? There is no happy ending for the stories like ours."

 

“Happy ending does not simply _happen,_ Louis.” Harry hears himself say over the sound of his thundering heart. “You need to work for it.”

 

 

At this point, Harry stops telling himself that he doesn’t care. He lets the feelings talk for him.

 

“I am ready to do so. If you are, too.”

 

He crosses the room, stops right before the piano, and takes Louis’ face in his hands. He doesn’t even care for the sappiness of the words that follow.

 

“Do you want a happy ending? With me?”

 

 

Louis looks him right in the eye, gets up from the bench, and kisses with all he has.

 

Harry takes that as a ‘yes’.

 

 

The kiss is rough, desperate; a painful clash of lips and teeth. Louis buries his hands in Harry’s hair, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between their bodies.

 

Harry breaks the kiss, lips red and swollen as he slowly turns around and bends over the piano, eyes not leaving Louis' for a single moment. Louis moans brokenly, pulling his head to the side, and back into a messy kiss. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Louis breathes, resting his forehead against Harry’s.

Harry pecks him softly on the lips before resting his cheek against the polished surface of the piano, closing his eyes with a smile.

 

“Oh Lord,” Louis whispers in the crease of Harry’s shoulder. “You are going to be the death of me.”

 

With that, Louis gracefully falls on his knees behind him. Harry feels the fabric being peeled from his skin, expects Louis' wet finger circling his rim, but instead-

 

" _Fuck_!" he moans loudly, fingers sliding against the piano lid, trying to find something, _anything_ to hold on to. Louis licks over his hole slowly, teasingly, before pushing the tip right in. The sensation is almost too much. He feels Louis' moans muffled against his flesh as his tongue fucks relentlessly into Harry's hole.

 

"Louis, please _, I need_ -" he chokes out, unable to form words from the sensations assaulting him.

 

He whimpers at the sudden emptiness, Louis’ lips now whispering frantically in his ear.

 

“We can’t, love, don’t have-“

 

“Waistcoat, left pocket,” Harry groans, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. “Lavender oil. For the ankle.”

 

He can feel Louis’ smirk when he noses his cheek, his hand brushing past Harry’s nipple as he retreats the small bottle. “Ankle, hmm?”

 

Soon after, Harry feels the wet fingers against his hole, pushes back needily onto the digits.

 

“Shh, dear,” Louis murmurs into his hair. “Let me take care of you.” Finally, one nimble finger enters him, Louis setting a fast pace that leaves Harry moaning for _more, please, more!_ Louis adds another with a kiss to his neck, aiming the fingers upward, searching for the spot that makes Harry lose himself completely.

 

Harry’s back arches from the piano when he finds it, and back into the touch, desperate.

 

"Tell me what you want, Harry, anything," Louis rasps in a deep voice, sending shivers down Harry’s spine.

 

" _You,_ please, need you-“ He can feel the tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he pushes himself back onto Louis fingers, cries out in frustration when he pulls them out. “’s alright, love, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Louis keeps murmuring against his cheek, kissing Harry sweetly while lining up with his entrance.

He whimpers at the feeling of Louis' wet cock against his hole. Harry is so hard it hurts, but makes no attempt to relieve the tension.

 

Louis pushes inside slowly. Harry feels his body opening around him, taking him in like he belongs there. He feels how Louis stills when he’s buried to the base, wrapping himself over Harry’s back to claim his lips in a slow kiss. His tongue sweeps over Harry plush bottom lip before biting it. _Move,_ Harry breathes into his mouth. Louis does exactly that.

 

There is no single thought left in Harry’s head as Louis moves _just right_ , pushing him against the side of the piano with the powerful thrusts, which provides Harry with much needed friction. He is already so close, begging Louis to go faster, harder, wants to feel the man spilling deep inside of him. He manages to say as much between the moans, and it was all that Louis needed to hear. He pushes hard against Harry’s arse one, two times before he stills and comes with a shout, Harry following soon after.

 

The kiss that follows is gentle, just a slight push against other’s lips. Harry can feel Louis smiling through it.

 

And, through Louis’ smile, Harry finds home.

 

***

 

When Louis tells him Zayn knew about Louis’ feelings for him from the beginning, Harry should feel much less surprised. Those two are, after all, best friends, and knowing about Zayn’s past explains why he welcomed their love with open hands.

 

Speaking about the past, Zayn gets his happy ending one sunny August afternoon, when Niall shows up at the mansion door. Zayn leaps in his embrace, Niall spinning him around while whispering that he’s safe now, that he had finally escaped the capture. That he’ll never leave Zayn again.

 

They get married soon after.

 

 

And Louis and Harry?

 

Some would say they never got their happy ending.

 

Harry's father disowns him, because, even if this _is_ 1815, and people are more open-minded than they were in the centuries before, having relations with a groundsman is still highly frowned upon. Harry’s mother, though, cries out of happiness when she sees that her son has finally found a person that he truly loves. She helps them as much as she can, morally and financially.

 

Louis leaves the Malik mansion to keep his friend’s name clear from any further harm, though Zayn fights him over it for a long time. He lets him go only after insisting that he and Harry accept the keys for Maliks’ summer estate. Unfortunately, the estate serves poorly to hide them from judging glances and hushed whispers. The shame that now surrounds Sir _Harry Edward Styles_ is not easy to escape.

 

 

They never got their happy ending, some would say, as the outcasts of the society.

 

But, as Louis reaches for Harry’s hand and kisses the ring on his finger, whispering _'I love you'_ against his lips, Harry decides that he does not care all that much. He has found his happy ending.

 

 

 

_(They get a small house by the lake, and continue to love each other freely._

_And if the road ever takes you there, dear Reader, you might just see them stealing kisses behind the phallus-shaped topiary_.)

 

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Now go and read my gift fic written by wonderfull ballsdeepinjesus, it's simply amazing!


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